For Magpie 145
I'm curled up in the bright red chair by the window.
It's raining out, it has been for most of a week.
At least, that's what the soft one says, every morning as she prepares our breakfast.
Kibble for me, bacon for her. I usually get half her bacon. She purrs at me, though, so I know she's not mad.
The soft one smells like this chair, even though it's mine, she sits in it sometimes, on cold nights. I join her, curled up on her knees instead of the soft cushion. It is not as comfortable, but her warmth makes up for it. The soft one is very warm and bright, with fur that comes off and I can sleep in, in the worn-fur basket. I like that basket almost as much as I like my chair, by the window.
I can see the garden from behind my twitching tail. It's very wet out there, no birds to catch or squirrels to chase, just green green green and grey.
Inside is bright, with my chair and the soft one's furs and pictures on the wall and fire in the hole.
Fire is not for me, the soft one says, and when I was a kit she hissed at me if I went too near.
Fire and I listen to each other, though, my purrs, his cracks and spits. It warms me, and I do not touch it.
There is no Fire to hiss and purr to today, the soft one is Out. She says this to me, "Well, I'm going Out" and click clack shuts the door.
I do not know why anyone would want to go Out into the rain and leave this nice, soft red chair, so snug and warm.